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Splinter helixEMBRYOa derelict building shifts its swollen formwire cage elevators moving carefully as it swallowsnestled in a womb of fragile concrete fibresthe child of paint and pastel colours stirssearching blindly for that energetic outside worldit stretches its delicate arms like an earthquakeSAPLINGTell me where you come from, what you rememberof the black ground. Talk in riddles only your kindunderstands, talk in flowers, talk in thorny branches.You crack the foundations in starlike patterns, andyou stretch the heart of you for the concrete above,longing to carry the sky as a bed for the Sun.GENERATIONthe twisting flesh of the whistling treeblankets the screaming mud with saltin a lush park tended by arthritic backsan old man sits with a young girlas devils arc their spines within smilesthey discuss the taste of snowANCIENTThey know the end grows high, grows nigh,outgrows the star dome like parasite patchwork.The invaders never came, they were the ground stones,what
Freedom(Open-mindedness is not a power.)Hold up your hand.Straighten it and make a fist. That arm is a solid structure, a column of cells, a staff.It's simply a cylinder, and that is all.(Open mindedness is not a force.)Go up to a trashcan, place your hands on its side, and shove as hard as you can.Try it. Watch the trashcan fly, its lid clanging open and its guts spilling over the pavement.You did that. Notice the veins bulging from your arms.Do you feel at peace?(Open-mindedness is not a form of knowledge.)These I know to be true: the sky is blue, blood is red, and the Earth is round."Do you deny sunsets, then? Do you expect only oxygen, and disregard calculus?" ......Please stop. i dont want to be wrong, its embarrassingNow go outside.Imagine yourself immersed in sky, wrapped in the great blue blanket.There are thousands of clouds above you, some heavy with rain and others bursting with sunshine, and seagulls dip and dive around yo
This poem is not about sparrows.Birds just don't fall this hard.You have slashed your pillows,scooped up the feather entrailsand glued them in grotesque clumpsto your bruised skin,and like some failed experimentyou sit in the darkest corner of your roommuttering, whimpering half-thoughts anddark, terribly frayed strands of melody,but still your bones won't break,no matter how many times you jump from your nest....It's time to wash away the inkyou've been rubbing into your papercuts;It's time to stop writing aboutsparrows....I remember:(That broken, bleeding beakuttered no cry of self-pitywhen I tucked it into a plastic bagand crushed it with my shovel.)